


Meme Ficlet: Holiday

by greywash



Series: Meme Ficlets (Spring 2012... and onward) [15]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-10
Updated: 2012-05-10
Packaged: 2017-11-05 02:27:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/401443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greywash/pseuds/greywash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Meme ficlet, archived off Tumblr; unbeta'ed and un-Britpicked.</em>
</p>
<p><strong>Anonymous requested</strong>: Sherlock and Six (unless Six is Sherlock, in which case: Seven) are stuck on a desert island together. Sexy shenanigans go down.</p>
<p>
  <strong>6. Henry Knight</strong>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Meme Ficlet: Holiday

It's two days before Sherlock's fully established a mental map of the island, another three before he can begin to accept that there isn't a way off. Or, well—there _is_ , but it involves waiting, and relying on other people, which is intolerable on the best of days, which this isn't.

"D'you think they're looking for us?" Henry asks, in that eternally hesitant way of his, and Sherlock doesn't grind his teeth together and doesn't roll his eyes, because that got unbearably tiresome after the first six hours.

Instead, Sherlock says, "Of course they're looking for us—or, well, me, rather," because he doesn't think much of anyone will miss  _Henry_.

"Oh," Henry says, leaning back on his elbows, digging hollows in the sand. "That's good, then."

Henry's shirt was an early casualty; it's currently curtaining the doorway of the shelter that Henry constructed out of palm fronds, branches, and a convenient lee of rock while Sherlock was busy trying to figure out how to get them home. Henry also managed to collect a number of shells and rig together a basket-like contraption in the smallish waterfall to the west; they've had fish every day, so far. Henry is, Sherlock has discovered, substantially less useless than expected. He's also a little pink from the sun, already melting into a tan over his shoulders and forearms and freckles across his nose and the tops of his ridiculous ears. Sherlock's sunburn is both brighter and substantially less aesthetically pleasing, even though he's been making a strong effort to stay in the shade. It doesn't always work. He's tired, now, tucked in against the base of an oversized and unpleasantly pungent tree of some sort. The skin on his back aches, even under his shirt.

"You seem less concerned than I would've expected," Sherlock tells Henry, drawing his knees up. His trousers are beyond hope, which is, he has to admit, largely irrelevant.

Henry shrugs, squinting out over the water. "It's all right, really." He turns and looks at Sherlock, saying, "When I was little I always wanted to be a pirate."

Sherlock snorts. "This is hardly a high-seas adventure," he says. "We don't even have a boat."

"No, true," Henry concedes. "But I imagine if we _were_  really pirates, we'd be quite lucky if we wound up stranded on an island with fresh water and convenient fish and everything. If we were pirates, this would probably be like a holiday."

Sherlock can feel the corners of his mouth tugging up. "The Ritz-Carlton, Desert Island location?" he suggests. "Five stars and all that."

Henry laughs. "Exactly," he says, and grins over at Sherlock.

Sherlock turns his head and clears his throat. "Probably a bit more enjoyable with a high-protection sunblock," he says, and Henry says, "Oh! Right. Come on, then," and pushes to his feet.

Sherlock watches him pad over towards the shelter.

"I know you don't have any high-protection sunblock," Sherlock calls at Henry's back, pushing up to his feet. "Or—if you do, and you've just been withholding it for some sort of sadistic purpose as yet unknown—"

Henry ducks in past his shirt and calls out, "No, no, don't be stupid—come on, I know you're trying to stay in the shade, doubt you want to get your kit off on the beach."

Sherlock's better than halfway there already, but that makes him hesitate. "Henry," he says, uncertainly, "I think you should know that—"

Henry sticks his head out of the shelter. "I'm not after your virtue," he says, exasperated. "There's aloe growing up the other side of the rocks, I cut some earlier and worked out the gel, it'll help with the burn. Come _on_."

Sherlock swallows and ducks in after him. The shelter is not large, by any stretch of the imagination, barely big enough for the two of them to lie down opposite each other at night, but Henry's crouched near the back, with two shells full of clear slime resting next to his knees.

"How do you even know that's aloe?" Sherlock asks, scooting in. "The last thing I need is for some sort of toxic reaction—"

Henry's already dipped a finger in and is running the goo over the bridge of his nose. He says, "Satisfied?"

Sherlock frowns at him. "How do you know how to do these things?" he asks, reaching for his buttons. "With the—the palm frond mattresses and the improvised shelter and the fish basket and everything. These are not things normal people know how to do."

"Well, the same thing could be said of most things you know how to do," Henry says, scooting up beside him. "Besides—I spend a lot of time on the internet. Isn't that how anyone knows anything these days?"

"Newsletter subscription from desert island survival skills dot com?" Sherlock asks. "Just in case?"

"Hours browsing eHow, actually," Henry admits. "I get bored." Sherlock snorts and shrugs his shirt off gingerly, and Henry hisses. "Christ, the shirt hasn't done much for you, has it," he says, and then brushes one cold finger against the overheated curve of Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock winces. "You may not have noticed," he says, as steadily as he can manage, "but I burn easily."

"Right," Henry says. "But—this is new levels of burn, Sherlock. You're bright red. Duck your head down, let me start with your neck."

Sherlock licks his lips and bends his head, and Henry smooths the gel over the back of Sherlock's neck, very very carefully. It stings a little but it's worth it for the cool, and Henry's very careful, and Sherlock breathes a little easier with each pass of Henry's fingers over his skin.

"That's almost the last of it," Henry says, quiet. "I can gather up more tomorrow, though, there was loads. Turn around, I'll get your face."

Sherlock turns without thinking, and closes his eyes, and Henry brushes the aloe over his forehead, his cheekbones, his nose and chin, his mouth. His mouth.

Sherlock swallows, and opens his eyes. 

Henry scrunches up his face, and shakes his head, swallows visibly. "Really not after your virtue," he says, a little awkwardly, and then, "I didn't mean to," and then he stops, because Sherlock is kissing him—carefully, because he really is rather sunburnt, and his mouth is just about the only part of him that doesn't feel like it's on fire.

When Sherlock pulls back, Henry breathes out, and says, "Ah—well, then."

"Virtue's a bit overrated," Sherlock tells him, and then clears his throat, and admits, "I always wanted to be a pirate, too."


End file.
